The long path to courage
by MattOfBlossoms
Summary: Based on the events of the Witcher School International LARP, set 200 years before the time of the books. The story follows the thoughts and struggles of a witcher adept among many others. Fighting against a world that is uncompromising and often cruel, and with his own imperfections, will the adept rise to the expectations he has set for himself?
1. Blossoms

Some people say that there is no destiny, that it all comes down to our choices, that we can shape our future. I understand why they would think that, it is an optimistic, mobilizing view: work hard, seize opportunities when they come, no matter how tough, and in the end you will be rewarded. I, however, find myself incapable of indulging in this fantasy. I cannot, not when almost all that could go wrong, did. Not when bad things completely outside my power to influence happen, time and again, narrowing my choices down to a muddy, solitary path.

Destiny exists, and it is an arbitrary and ruthless force. Are there laws or reason behind it? I do not know and cannot know for certain. I do hope so - let our suffering not be in vain, at least. But as far as the here and now is concerned, we are being played and discarded like pawns in a celestial game of chess. Lives can be destroyed independent of an individual's capacity to prevent such a fate and worse, with no regard for other people who might care for this individual, who will be shaken by the loss of a loved one.

I have reached this conclusion the hard way, one sunny day in the bloom of spring, when I had but 6 winters under my belt. I was alone, at the edge of my village, swinging a crooked wooden branch as if it were a knight's sword. My branch made for a very poor sword, but I cared little for that, for my imagination carried me to distant lands and exotic encounters.

I knew nothing of the world outside my small Temerian village, save for the folk tales my mother would tell, of horrifying monsters and brave heroes who sacrificed much to slay them. I would occasionally catch a glance at a passing knight in glinting chainmail, however, and that is how I imagined all heroes looked like. I even hoped I might be one some day... no, not a knight, that would be too modest, but a hero.

And yet, so unlike a hero, I was playing alone, because I couldn't stand being around the other kids, with their cruel jokes and constant bullying. I didn't understand why they always picked on me; even now, with the benefit of hindsight and life experience, I cannot say what their reasoning was. But I suppose I have always been a freak, incapable in some way of interacting with other people in a normal fashion. But... my weird nature, this disadvantage that has always dragged me down in life, did save me that day. Interesting, if cruel, joke by Destiny.

Screaming, both angry and terrified, interrupted my play. My first instinct, I am ashamed to say, was to run and hide in some nearby bushes. Sometimes I like to think that it was a sixth sense or the hand of Destiny at play, but the truth, I think, is that I was a coward. I sat there, paralyzed with fear, as the screams grew louder and smoke began to rise from the village. I saw a woman run for the treeline, a crying boy no older than me in her arms. She barely made it halfway before an arrow pierced her heart, and she fell down, dead.

I did not fully comprehend what I was seeing, or maybe I was just not right in the head, for I made no sound, just stood there motionless as the boy tugged at his mother, crying at her to wake up. An elf quickly appeared into sight, bow and arrow in hand, moving like a cat dashing for a mouse. He quickly scanned the area for foes and, satisfied that there are none, he placed his arrow back in the quiver and slung his bow over his shoulder. Instead, he drew a long, wicked knife, his steps towards the boy now slow and measured. Swift and precise, the elf then plunged his knife into the boy's throat, screaming a curse I did not understand. The elf looked downright uninterested as a fountain of blood erupted from his victim's neck, as if he had just cut a stalk of grain for the harvest. With a final glance around him, the elf turned and left at a quick pace.

My eyes remained fixed on the crimson bodies even as my body started to shake uncontrollably. That was the moment when I understood Death.

I knew little about elves. My mother said only that they were beautiful and mysterious, but that it was considered bad luck for one to cross your way. Father would spit and curse their name every time they were brought up, threatening my mother to stop indulging me with tales about them. But then again, father would just as often spit and curse at us, for reasons I did not understand.

But I realized in that moment that my father had been right all along. There was nothing beautiful about these elves, nothing mysterious save the timing of their next arrow. For how could there be any good in a race of beings that killed with such indifference?

I remained there, too afraid to move, insensitive to the sounds of battle around me, for how long I do not know, until a strong arm shook me from my stupor. A pair of concerned blue eyes in armor wanted to know if I was unhurt. I could only nod affirmative. There were more questions, I think, but I lost the details in the haze of memory. All I know for certain is that, just as my old home was burning around me, I had found a new one, as a ward of Lord Esche. Some might call that a blessing in disguise, a promotion from the bland life of a peasant, to life in a noble house. A blessing? Maybe, but at what cost? Can I take it back? No, of course not, all is as Destiny has decreed.

That was the moment when I understood Destiny.


	2. House Esche

There was both good and bad in my new life, but it generally tilted towards the former. Notably, the accommodation and meals were far better than what a peasant hovel could provide. The residence of House Esche was only a wooden keep surrounded by a stout palisade, but it still was a world removed from my previous life. I did have to do some adjusting to the customs of a noble home, but I enjoyed help from an unexpected source.

The lord's son had every reason to resent me, an intruder in his home. His mother certainly did, and she was quick to punish me for even the slightest misstep. But Leifr proved different, even though I do not believe I gave him good reason to be so kind to me. Shy, overwhelmed and quite stubborn, I was a very difficult person to befriend. But, for reasons known only to him, he did so anyway. He pressed me with questions until I would answer, sometimes waiting patiently for hours for me to come forward with a full response. He would offer the help I wouldn't ask for and he would keep coming back to me no matter the outcome of the previous day.

We ended up taking a blood oath in one cold autumn night, away from the prying eyes of the castle. We each made a small cut in our palms, then we shook hands, mixing blood and vows of eternal friendship. We vowed that we would always stand together, no matter the hardships Destiny threw our way, no matter the temptations of separate paths. We made this oath because we knew we were alone in a very cold world, aware that only together could we possibly prevail.

I still missed some parts of my old life, especially my mother. Sometimes, I would feel like a had descended chill around me, even in the warmth of day, a need for protective arms to grasp me tightly. I would fall into melancholy then, and generally prove unresponsive even to Leifr's best efforts. I feel somewhat guilty now for doing that to him; it was selfish, was it not?

Castle life also came with other interesting perks, chief among which was lessons in all manner of interesting subjects: literature, history, basic mathematics, even a bit of philosophy for when the literature tutor was in a particularly good mood. There were also more practical lessons in sword fighting and riding, but I was never any good in those. In hindsight, the man assigned to teach us wasn't particularly skilled in tutoring, either. He had a very short temper, exploding as soon as my fumbling attempts made it clear I wouldn't get the hang of it very soon.

I quickly developed an intense dislike for physical exercises, doing my best to avoid them if possible. I intensely regret those decisions now; if I had worked harder back then, I would be stronger and more skillful now. But, I can only wonder; did I truly have a choice in pursuing physical activities or not, or was I just conditioned by my environment and my natural dispositions into making the choice I made? After all, it feels rather natural to not pursue something you are clearly not good at.

Nevertheless, my time in the castle of House Esche was generally pleasant. I learned much and lived a life far more comfortable than too great a majority of people. In time, even the worst memories of the burning of my village began to fade, only very rarely troubling me in brief nightmares. There was nothing to remind me of the quaint little village of Blossoms, not even in the lord's tax records I sometimes sneaked a peek at (yes, I am weird, I know). No one had dared (or bothered) to rebuild that settlement, and I had never felt a particular desire to revisit the place. Just thinking of the charred ruins that might still dot the place gives me shivers.

By the time I was 23 I had all but forgotten my former life, and I was content with that. But Destiny, heh, Destiny has this nasty way of coming to bite you in the ass when you least expect it. Our court had a visitor one day, one sunny day in the bloom of spring. Cloaked in black, bearded face hiding beneath a cowl, with black gloves and a measured, dangerous gait, he strode in my adoptive father's hall with the confidence... no, not confidence; it was indifference, I think. He cared not that the guards were all resting their hands on their sword hilts, eyeing him with fear or even outright hate. His yellow, cat-like eyes were firmly set on the castle's lord, and his poise never once wavered, despite the large bag slung on his shoulders.

The witcher stopped just three paces in front of my father and then he unceremoniously dumped the contents of his bag on the floor. A dozen elven heads banged hard against wood, blood still seeping from their severed necks. Their faces were twisted by pain and surprise in a grotesque mockery of elven beauty. I could only turn away in disgust, barely able to hold the contents of my stomach. Elves though they were, they looked eerily similar to that dead woman in Blossoms...

Leifr placed both hands on my shoulders and steadied me. I still felt sick, but straightened up to maintain a good impression. My father threw a heavy pouch of gold at the witcher, who effortlessly caught it in one hand. After judging the weight to be acceptable, the monster hunter smiled to himself; twisted a corner of his mouth, rather. He turned on his heels and briskly walked back the way he came, no formal dismissal required.

My father also left shortly after, directing an unfortunate servant to clean the mess. I remained, Leifr besides me, still fixated on the severed heads that stared unknowingly into the abyss. I was certain that I wanted vengeance for Blossoms, that I wanted all those elves dead. These dead ones may very well be them, and yet I found no satisfaction in contemplating their fate, only emptiness.

Such a difference death makes in someone's bearing, I thought to myself. If they were still alive, I would probably be angry and intent on killing them. But now... now, I felt... pity? Leifr couldn't really understand what I was thinking as babbles poured out of my unorganized mind. Why wasn't I content that elven murders had been punished? Why, indeed. I let him take me out of the hall for some fresh air. He then shifted the conversation to the mysterious witcher. Truly they must be super-human warriors, for one to slay a dozen elves and bear no wound for his troubles. Yes, Leifr was quite enamored with them.

Well, I admit, I was fascinated too. A bit intimidated, but fascinated nevertheless. Our visitor seemed like a walking myth, like that hero in bedtime stories that can defeat even the scariest and strongest of monsters. I didn't doubt for a single moment that this witcher could slay any foe that crossed his path. He should probably lighten up a bit, though. After all, he's a monster slayer, a supernatural warrior, not a thug from the streets of Vizima. We talked about the witcher well into the evening, until we were forced to attend supper.

I still vividly remember the steak I was enjoying when the alarm bell started sounding, bringing everyone to their feet. We rushed outside after our father, where we were greeted by the screams of battle. The setting sun threw a crimson blanket over the sky, a fitting cover for the carnage unfolding below: the thump of elven arrows piercing flesh, clanging of steel on steel and the sickening crunch of bones and haunting death screams. Drawing his sword, our father turned to us and ordered us to grab mother and run.

Before either of us could react in any way, an arrow pierced our father's heart, killing him before he hit the ground. Leifr started for his father, but I grabbed onto him and pulled him down, out of the path of arrows. He begged his father for an answer that could not come. I felt a familiar paralysis crawling up my spine, the scene all too familiar. I don't know for how long I stood there dumbly, but as Leifr stirred beneath me to reach for his father, I snapped to life and forcibly dragged him away, pleading with him to run. He raged at me and demanded we stay and fight, he even called me a coward. I like to think that I was thinking of the bigger picture, that it would do no good to fight and die; but I think the truth is that I really was a coward, looking after my own skin.

Finally Leifr gave in and started running with me. He grabbed his mother without explanation, and we hurried through the back door, hoping to flee the castle through the secondary gate in the palisade. Just as we neared the exit, however, I heard Leifr cry out in dismay. I saw his mother fall to the ground, an arrow sticking from her back. I pulled at my friend with all my strength to get him through the gates, out of sight of the archer. A second arrow that barely missed my leg proved my point and had him running again.

And so we escaped, sound of body, if not of mind. We stopped only when the castle remained only barely visible, hiding among the trees. As soon as we got there, Leifr just curled up next to a tree. I tried offering him comfort, but I just didn't find the words to do so. I tried placing a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged me off. I could only sit there and watch helplessly as grief gnawed at him.

Haunted by echoes of the slaughter relived, I took refuge next to another tree. I had lost my home, my family, for the second time in my life. It seemed to me at the time that I had been singled out by Destiny for punishment, that it was piling on me all the disasters that could be conceived. Was this just some big cosmic joke? To see how far a man can be pushed before he crumbles? Or was this life a punishment for a past one steeped in sin?

Soft sounds of crying broke my reverie of self-pity. I remembered then that I was not alone in this disaster, unlike last time, and that while things were bad again, they were slightly better by virtue of a companion in misery. We could stand together where only one would fall. So I gathered my wits and settled next to my friend, and told him that no matter what Destiny had in store for us, we will prevail, because we will always stay together. His crying stopped and he gave me a brotherly one-armed hug. I became certain then that all will turn out alright. Naive? Yes, but I really needed to be naive that night.

We barely slept, despite being exhausted; it was cold and we had nothing with which to keep warm. A fire was too risky, and so we just dozed off a little now and then. Freezing and consumed with uncertainty, we agreed we should go back and look for survivors. We tried running, but we were so drained, both of physical and mental energy, that we couldn't keep the pace for more than a few seconds at a time.

We found the keep burned almost to the ground, smoke still rising from its charred remains. The elves hadn't bothered to place the dead on the pyre they had started, however, leaving them to be picked at by crows. Leifr wept again as we found his parents, stripped of all their valuables, left almost naked and horribly contorted.

"What monster would do this?" He raged at me as we looked for anything to dig a grave with.

"Elves," I concluded. Clearly the long-eared ones had no respect for human life, or perhaps for life in general.

Finding a shovel with half the handle unburned, we labored all day to bury my adoptive parents, and by the end we were so exhausted that we just rested there on the grass, thinking of nothing and everything at the same time.

"What now?" I asked, mind void of any possibilities for us. I did not expect an answer, and certainly not one so determined.

"We go to Kaer Tiele. We become witchers."

"What? Why?" I was acutely aware that I would make probably the worst witcher candidate in the world.

"Nothing left for us here," Leifr said with an empty look in his eyes. "Not even one item to identify me as the heir of House Esche. As of now, House Esche is dead, and we are little more than commoners to the outside world." He paused to let this thought sink in. "Besides, think of the good things we can do once our training is complete."

I wasn't sold on this idea, not at all. But then, what else could we do? And regardless, if this was the path he had chosen, then I felt compelled to stand beside him on it, for good or ill.

And so, we scavenged what little supplies we could from the ruins, said our final farewells to the place, and then set out into the wild world ahead, with no money and no weapons to help make the journey easier, only our grim determination.


	3. Initiation

Our journey to the castle of the witchers took us over a month, complete with a lot of backtracking, as our vague memories of a map failed to guide us in the vastness of the world. We spent most of our nights under the open sky, sleeping in shifts so that we wouldn't be surprised by some wandering beast. The most miserable days were those when it rained. Roads turned to mud, and we had to slog through while soaking wet, for we had no leather bag in which to keep clothes dry. My only possessions worthy of that name, in fact, were my sturdy leather boots and a pair of fine leather gloves.

But we braved all these difficulties, and finally made it to the hilltop castle of Kaer Tiele, home of the Wolf School of witchers. Though it had clearly seen better days, it was still an imposing sight, with stout stone walls protected by a dry moat, from behind which peeked a wide stone keep. No elven raiding party would find this castle an easy prey.

Our weary limbs surging with renewed determination at the sight of our goal, we hurried over the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, but there was no one in sight. I was feeling awkward, heart caught in my throat with anxious anticipation. I did not want to be the one to suggest we enter the keep and ask around - I was feeling like too much of an intruder already.

"Can I help you?" A strong voice behind us asked.

Almost jumping out of our skins, we turned to see a tall witcher, smiling paternally to us while casually toying with a dagger in his hands. I briefly questioned my place here as Leifr explained we are here to become witchers. With a short laugh, the man asked us if we are sure. Leifr agreed aloud; I just nodded along shyly.

"Alright," the man shrugged. With that, he motioned for us to follow, and he took us inside the keep to meet the steward, a portly man of indeterminate age with a shaggy gray beard. He shook his head knowingly on finding out that we were new recruits, then gave each of us a change of clothes, a gambeson, a piece of brown leather with a number on it (6 for me, 7 for Leifr) and directions to our new lodgings. He told us to clean up, then stay out of the way until evening. A new batch of recruits was coming up, and everyone was to be mustered in the evening.

Relieved that we had achieved our goal, we scurried to our room with no further questions. Our new home was cramped compared to what we had been used to; a dozen people lived in a room fit for two. But neither of us complained, for it was better than anything we had endured over the past month. And we didn't complain as we gingerly washed with ice cold water - painful hygiene was better than no hygiene.

There were already other prospective witchers here, looking every bit as haggard and unsure as we were, something which gave me a bit of confidence. At least I won't be by far and away the worst recruit! We didn't engage in conversation, however, as we were still feeling awkward and out of place here. We sat on our beds and exchanged a few platitudes, trying to quell the anticipation building up in our guts. I was happy to finally settle somewhere again, but also anxious at what was to come. I had no idea what to expect, but a pretty good idea that I would be bad at it.

Finally evening came, along with two carts filled with new recruits, and after a while to let them settle, muster was called by sounding a loud horn that reverberated around the castle. Hands cold with anticipation, we joined the stream of recruits into the courtyard, all looking very similar in brown pants and gambesons. By this time the sun had set completely, leaving the courtyard pitch black, save for torches carried by grim-looking witchers.

We were sharply ordered to form into two lines, but unaccustomed to military order, we fumbled like headless chickens, until stern voices warned us to hurry up. No threat had to be openly stated.

We finally managed to get in a line, but certainly not a straight one. One of the witchers, whom I recognized as the man who greeted us earlier, paced in front of us, mockingly asking us if that is what we called a line. As we shuffled to accommodate him, a chuckle could be heard from further down the line. I suppose we did make an amusing sight, about 40 people struggling to get a basic formation right. The witcher did not like this though, and after identifying the culprit, he punched him so hard that I could hear it from my end of the line.

"Anyone else thinks this is funny?" He roared to us, scanning the crowd for the faintest hint of a smile. I think we were all fully sobered up at that point, but he seemed eager to drive the point home. "On the ground!" Satisfied that everyone was on all fours, he further commanded: "When I say up, you go up, when I say down, you go down! Now, up!" He paused for lengthy moment to let us feel the burn. "Down!" Barely a pause here. "Up! Down! Up! Down!" And so he continued, getting faster to the point I could barely keep up. Just as I was about to collapse, the witcher relented and told us to get up.

He continued to patrol among us sternly, as another witcher, wearing a breastplate and with an almost royal bearing, walked down from his place near the doors to the castle keep, hands behind his back and his pace measured.

"I am Grandmaster Svar of Novigrad; and in this castle, I am the law." He spoke slowly and at a moderate volume, but his voice carried the unmistakable steel of authority. None of us even dreamed to doubt his claim. He went on to present the witcher masters present at the school, each looking his/her own brand of fearsome. Four of them were to serve as leaders and mentors to four groups of adepts (us) and we would know which group we belonged to by the color of the leather patch which we had to keep with us at all times. Svar also casually introduced Captain Mia of the Blue Stripes, representative of the Temerian King at the castle, a King which, Svar insisted, had no authority within this castle.

With introductions done, he told mentors to find their groups and then to go eat. My stomach rumbled at that word, its long overdue revolt at malnutrition now in full swing. I had to ignore that, however, for the masters were shouting for a particular color to come join them in a part of the courtyard. I didn't know what each master was like, but I was sure I didn't want the tall one with a fearsome scar running diagonally across his face and an even more fearsome gaze. He was clad in black leather armor, with a big white sheep skin on his back, that made him look even bigger than he already was. I thanked the Gods when brown turned out to belong to a rather mild-looking fellow with long blond hair. I heaped even more praise unto the Gods when we immediately headed to the mess hall, where a long table lined with delicious food awaited us.

Our Master introduced himself as Vester of Oxenfurt, then tried to draw us into a conversation to which I paid little attention because of how unbelievably hungry I was. Hungry, I will admit, is when I am at my worst. I barely even made note of the important announcement that all adepts were to check in with a certain Master Meinard before going to bed. The bliss of finally enjoying a full stomach did not last for long, however, as the scary master suddenly appeared behind me, asking Vester if he was sure that this was his group.

Even though the matter had yet to be investigated, I just knew that we were fucked. How else could this possibly go? Destiny would admit no other road but having me in the group with the most fearsome master.

Unsurprisingly, I was proven right just moments later. The Master had all of us follow him outside, where he had us line up. With the experience of push-ups still fresh in our minds, we lined up with alacrity. The Master then gave the first and last person in the line a torch, and he informed us that we would be running for a bit, in formation. He took us to just outside the moat, where we stopped, in a line.

He introduced himself as Master Jodok of Kovir, and he explained to us that, now that we are here, there are only three paths forward: become a witcher, become a member of the Blue Stripes (which explained what a Temerian Captain was doing in a witcher castle), or death. There was no going back. His job then, was to prepare us in order to increase our chances of survival. Our job was to learn to work as a group, help each other out and so cover each other's weaknesses.

His first lesson, then, was to teach us to line up in front of him whenever he started counting. If he counted above ten, then we would have to do that number of push-ups. Our arms were pushed to their limit, but we learned quickly. Satisfied, Jodok then proposed another exercise: we would have to touch him somehow, while he would do his best to defend himself with his sword. But just with the blunt side, of course. That was not very reassuring, I thought, as Jodok shed his sheep skin and drew his sword, lowering himself into a fighting stance.

We rushed him in a disorganized manner, but the witcher moved with the speed of lightning, striking down about two of us every second. Soon, we were all on the ground, smarting from the Master's blows.

"You need to work together!" Jodok scolded us. "Talk among yourselves for 5 minutes, and then try again!" With that, he moved a bit further afield to give us some space. We discussed among ourselves and decided that, this time, we should coordinate: some should distract the Master, to allow someone else to hit him from behind. When we tried the exercise again, one of us did manage to touch the Master, though not before some of us received another sword hit for our troubles.

Jodok was pleased, however, and he gathered us around him to discuss what we had learned from this exercise. Teamwork was high on everybody's mind, after we had just proven how a little cooperation could help bring down a Master witcher. Jodok agreed, but also pointed out that we never communicated, and that we should do so in the future, in order to better react to the changing circumstances of a battle.

His speech was however interrupted by the silent arrival of the Grandmaster. If Jodok had not called out to him, I doubt any of us adepts would have noticed his approach. The Grandmaster seemed to be very interested in our discussion, and he motioned to Jodok to continue, while he leaned casually against a nearby tree. After a brief shift of expressions, our Master continued, proposing one further exercise, similar with the previous one, except he would be hidden this time around. It was our job not only to find him, but then swiftly organize and find a way to touch him.

The Grandmaster offered to join in, and so we set out, a mismatching assembly of shivering adepts and a hardened witcher, playing hide and seek. Jodok had had ten seconds of head start, which he seemed to had put to good use, for we found no sign of him anywhere. We slowly combed the wooded outskirts of the castle for our elusive Master, who seemed to have just vanished into thin air. I was doing my best to pay more attention to my surroundings than to the cold I was feeling, but it wasn't going too well. As the search lengthened, I started to get nervous, but a sudden call from our Master put an end to the search.

"No, not that way, there are dire wolves in the forest. Come back!" Well, that went well.

We returned to Master Jodok, and he said we should probably leave the exercise for another time. He asked us to find a good name for our group instead, something descriptive, that we could all get behind, something to bind us and provide a rallying point. Seeing one of us shiver, he asked us if we were cold, which we immediately agreed.

"Ten push-ups, then," was the answer. That was the last time any of us admitted to Master Jodok to being cold.

After that, the Master left with Svar, to give us space to think. Talk quickly and inevitably turned to something that would encapsulate the teamwork Jodok was so fond of. The thought of a pack of wolves instantly came to mind. But all proposals sounded a bit bland to me; we also needed an adjective, something to make us unique. As the cold sent another shiver down my spine, I had a moment of clarity.

"Frostwolves," I offered shyly. The others thought for a moment but quickly took a liking to the idea. When the Master returned, we all unanimously supported this new name.

"But why?" Asked Jodok, looking puzzled.

"Because it's fucking cold!" Said one of the guys, meaning every word.

Jodok's eyes instantly lit up. "I like that! Frostwolves... Well, then let's go up to the old tower and complete your initiation."

The Master took us deeper into the woods and towards a ruined tower, of which only perhaps a half was still standing. A short flight of stairs took us to an open stone platform, where some patches of snow still lingered - a fitting place for Frostwolves, I thought to myself. We arranged ourselves into a circle, and Master Jodok looked at each of us in turn before asking:

"Who are you?"

"Frostwolves," came the weak response.

"I can't hear you! Who are you?!"

"Frostwolves!"

"WHO ARE YOU?!"

"FROSTWOLVES!"

"WHY?!"

"BECAUSE IT'S FUCKING COLD!"

The Master then began howling like a wolf, and we all joined him eagerly. I had never before in my life felt more alive than I was then. Whatever the past hardships, I had found a family again. And I was determined to keep this one alive, come what may.

But if we thought our Master was done with us, we were sorely mistaken. As we walked back to the castle, he remembered that he no longer had his sheep skin, (but not where he dropped it) and so he ordered us to find it and quickly. Our urgency was further increased when he started counting. Since we all knew what awaited us, we scrambled in every direction, taking hurried looks in a wide arc so as not to miss anything. Fortunately, a brave soul managed to find the damned thing at the count of 9, saving us any more destruction for one day.

Satisfied with our performance, the Master led us to the castle at a gentle pace.

"You know, all my groups had something with wolf in their name," he confessed to us. "I don't understand how this happens." I exchanged a knowing look with Leifr, as another adept spoke what must have been on all of our minds: "You taught us to work as a pack, Master, and that's why we immediately thought of wolves."

As we neared the entrance to the keep, we again ran into the Grandmaster. Jodok immediately increased his pace to intercept him, an almost childish glee in his demeanor. "Grandmaster! Can you guess what name my group has chosen?"

Svar only lifted an eyebrow, perhaps considering himself too dignified to indulge in speculation.

"Who are you?" Asked Jodok, turning to us.

"FROSTWOLVES!" We bellowed in response without hesitation.

"See, wolves again."

A smile almost broke through the Grandmaster's composure. "I guess it suits you," he said, and a short unspoken conversation passed between the two. I had no time to wonder what that might mean, for the moment ended and the Grandmaster walked away. Jodok felt no need to explain further, and he reminded us to check in with Master Meinard in the mess hall, and then to go to sleep, for he assured us that a very long day awaited us tomorrow.

As I walked back to the main hall, I realized that Jodok wasn't the mean scary monster I had marked him out to be. He was tough as nails, sure, but who wouldn't be after a lifetime as witcher, battling the worst monsters this cursed world has to offer? I think I might be lucky to have him as a Master, after all. Leifr seemed to agree, but he wasn't in much of a mood for conversation as we queued up before Master Meinard's table. I couldn't blame him; the night so far had been pretty taxing.

The lack of conversation led to me involuntarily eavesdropping on the adept in front of me, a solid woman, the kind you don't want to mess with. She was telling Master Meinard something about a search for a dragon, which prompted me to label her as the Dragon Lady (since none of us had yet introduced ourselves and since I am bad with names, anyway). I didn't get the full story, however, as she was talking softly and I wasn't about to make an effort to intrude in other people's business.

I came next, and sat at the Master's small table. Meinard appeared to me to be the least witcher-y of all the castle's denizens. With flowing, curly blond hair and a finely crafted blue coat, he looked more the part of a court official. Only his mutated yellow eyes and his piercing gaze gave away his true nature, but even so, he seemed decidedly less scary than the other masters around (even though Master Jodok went down a notch on the scary scale after the initiation he was still the scariest person in the castle).

Meinard asked for my name and place of birth, then about any diseases I was or had been suffering from, as well as if there were any serious diseases that afflicted my parents. He diligently noted everything on a parchment, in an organized shorthand. He further inquired about my reasons for becoming a witcher. Upon hearing a heavily abridged version of my tale, he suggested that I might be better served in joining the Blue Stripes, if killing elves is what I was after. An intriguing choice, certainly, one I wouldn't have weighed had he not brought it up.

His questioning done, I went to the side of the room, to wait for Leifr out of the way. Suddenly, I heard whistling behind me, and turned to see one of the guys from my group grinning lewdly at one of the Masters, a small and fragile-looking woman. She immediately exploded with fury, ordering the adept to do thirty push-ups. Undaunted and showing no sign of repentance, he started on the push-ups. The Master narrowed her eyes and she mounted the adept's back, almost causing him to stagger under the sudden weight. Still, he braved on for a few push-ups more, before he finally collapsed to the ground. Without a word or second glance, the Master departed. Nearby adepts were furtively laughing, but I could only shake my head in contempt.

At that moment, Master Jodok entered the hall, and the entire group tacitly gathered around him without the need for any signal. Nodding once in approval, he told us that the Temerian captain had brought with her a noblewoman afflicted with lycanthropy - under the full moon, she would turn into a murderous werewolf. The noblewoman was being held in the castle's dungeon, but for extra security two volunteers were needed to keep watch over her. One hand shot up, which was quickly followed by Leifr's. I felt a bit betrayed then, as my friend had intently taken a job I couldn't follow him on.

As the Master took the two volunteers to the dungeon, I sulked back to my room, and got ready for bed. Not long after, the volunteers returned too. The arrangement had apparently been rescinded, and they had learned little of interest about the mysterious noblewoman. Selfishly satisfied that at least my friend hadn't experienced some great adventure without me, I found a comfortable position in my bed and fell asleep within moments.


	4. Rude Awakening

"GET UP! ON YOUR FEET AND INTO THE COURTYARD, NOW!" A shrill and powerful female voice ordered, tearing any shadow of sleep from my mind. I shot up upright in bed, a fact I instantly regretted as the frozen air of the night spread its icy grip all over me. Shivering violently, but unwilling to disobey whoever was shouting loud enough to wake up the dead, I fumbled for my clothes and tried to dress quickly, something made difficult by the trembling in my hands. It was no surprise that I was the very last to bolt out of the room, teeth chattering. I dared not even glance at the Master responsible for waking us up, who stood at the door threateningly, counting us to make sure that we all obeyed the muster.

Two orderly lines were already forming, and I raced to join them, making way so that I stood next to Leifr, who looked no more pleased to be out of bed. I was fully alert now, no trace of drowsiness in me, even though it clearly was the dead of night; perhaps the cold and fright had conspired to render me so awake. It was beyond fucking cold now, and a fierce wind chilled me down to the bone. The rumors flying around did nothing to help warm me up, either. Reportedly, the werewolf had escaped, the Temerian guards had been slain, and now we were being mustered in order to help find her. Well, that was a heart-warming thought - having to chase a dangerous werewolf with no arms nor armor, let alone training in dealing with such a foe. My teeth were now chattering violently and not only from the abominable cold.

Just as I was beginning to question my life's choices, the Grandmaster showed up, pace alert but oozing supreme calm and confidence. Inspecting us and finding us wanting, he bellowed a question: "Are you cold?!"

No's mingled with some yes's were mumbled out. This obviously did not please the Grandmaster. "I asked: are you fucking cold?!"

"NO, GRANDMASTER!" Came the unanimous shout. For a moment, the chill in my bones was suppressed, and the chattering of my teeth ceased, as if the stern warrior before me had scared away the cold.

"Good," concluded Svar, sweeping over all of us with a penetrating gaze. With that, he turned towards the Masters and started organizing the search. Master Jodok soon took charge of us, alongside another Master, the woman who my brave teammate had alienated earlier. Hopefully, she bore no grudges, and wouldn't feed any of us to the werewolf.

Our group was the last to move out, and we were to search along the rightmost flank of the party. The Master sternly told us to be extremely careful and call out at the slightest sign of the werewolf. The beast was extremely dangerous and could easily tear an untrained adept to pieces, a fact I needed little reminding about. Two torchbearers were selected and then we headed out at a jog, hearts thumping in our chests. I was grateful, at least, for the fact that we were moving, thus restoring an ember of warmth in my body.

We saw a wounded Temerian soldier being carried back to the keep, plenty of blood staining his armor. The sight did not exactly reassure me. As we filed out of the castle, we spread out in a loose formation, alert for any sign of the beast. We very soon came across a terrified peasant, who said he had seen a great shadow crossing his path. A terrified scream then pierced the air, and we all hurried towards its source, Master Jodok taking the lead. We reached a steep ravine, at whose bottom an injured adept could be seen, crying for help. The Master quickly descended to inspect his wounds, while someone held up a torch for him to see.

"The werewolf got him; it's pretty deep." The master pressed a cloth on the wound while he pondered what to do. "We need to take him to the castle, can't treat him here. Quick, I need five more of you down here, we need to lift him up!"

This turned out to be easier said than done. Crowded between bushes, and having to climb a very steep incline, we had to push and pull with all our strength to get him up. The poor boy screamed in pain as we constantly rocked and twisted him. I kept apologizing to him in my head, but there was nothing to be done as we struggled uphill. Once we were on flatter ground, it was a little easier for him, though my hands began to burn by the time we neared the drawbridge. Unwilling to rock him again by requesting a replacement, I stubbornly held on, even as my hands threatened to fall out of their sockets, until we finally reached a table in the courtyard on which we could drop him off. As soon as the weight was off my hands, I felt them go completely numb, refusing any further attempt from me to command them.

With better light provided by two torches, Master Jodok inspected the victim again. "It's bad, the claws managed to cut his liver. I'll have to risk giving him Swallow." Jodok took one of the vials from his belt and carefully poured half of it in the victim's mouth. The boy grimaced, then began to convulse; we held him by his hands and feet, but it was all in vain. Foam soon formed at the boy's mouth and he ceased moving altogether.

"Pity." Jodok concluded, slowly putting the vial back in its place. "You adepts are already taking some mutagens in your food and drink, so there was some chance this might have worked, but... well, you are no true witchers yet." With a last look at the dead boy, Jodok turned to us. "Let this be a lesson for you. If you go out alone, separate from your group, you are dead. It's that simple. Go by the fire and wait; I must talk with the other masters."

We waited by a campfire that had been lighted in the courtyard, all of us silent, for the death of an adept weighed heavily upon all of us, a stark reminder of the dangerous world we were entering. After seeing so much death, this one didn't hit as hard, but I still felt empty inside. I don't think I could ever take death lightly.

We saw the other adepts returning, and it looked like they were carrying someone, too. Jodok returned soon after, to inform us that the werewolf had been located and subdued. As for how she had escaped in the first place, there were only rumors, but no facts yet. Jodok told us to leave the questions for the next day and instead go to sleep, for a hard day awaited us. My bones still heavy with cold, I did not question the wisdom of that advice and headed straight for my warm bed.

Of course, nothing stopped the adepts from whispering rumors among themselves. Word was that the steward had been the one to let the princess go, purportedly under the spell of a sorceress that was traveling with the Temerians. But she was supposedly also the one that was to help break the noblewoman's curse, so the rumors didn't exactly add up. After Master Jodok appeared in the door frame, gently but firmly reminding us to go to sleep, discussion died down, and everyone tucked in for the night.

Soon, everyone was fast asleep, except for me. I had always had trouble going back to sleep after waking, and the many thoughts running through my mind did nothing to help matters. A deep cough was troubling me, and I was certain that come morning I would be ill and utterly useless. My new witcher life was certainly up to a great start.


	5. Tough lessons

I am fairly sure I didn't sleep at all that night, and yet morning found me rested, with no trace of the cough that had plagued me earlier, and ready to take on the day ahead. Maybe it was the mutagens they had been feeding us, or maybe I was just running on adrenaline and excitement. Either way, I was not about to complain, for I was sure I needed every little advantage I could get.

Even so, I was in no hurry to get out of my warm bed and brave the cold outside. Only a determined knock on our door along with an order to be in the courtyard in five minutes determined me to get up.

Waiting for us in the courtyard was Master Meinard, still in his blue coat. As we lined up before him, he told us that he will lead the morning exercises. He seemed peculiarly interested in the occasion, for reasons I could not fathom (maybe he likes watching sweaty adepts?). Without any further introduction, he had us run to outside the castle. There we had a few light stretching exercises, followed by a peculiar rest by way of meditation. Finally, he had us run in a circle, while he chased us in order to make us go as fast as we could. Anyone he touched had to do ten push-ups, and so we all scrambled out of the master's reach and ran until our lungs burned.

Just as I was about to give up and collapse unceremoniously in the dirt, Meinard called an end to the exercise and he sent us on our way to breakfast. Grateful for the reprieve, I took a couple of moments to recover my breath and to spot Leifr among the disorganized adepts. We shared thoughts on last night's adventures and whether we might find the witcher that our father had hired.

That question was answered sooner than I thought, as a prod in my ribs attracted my attention to a Master cloaked in black prowling the mess hall, as if intent on assassinating his breakfast. Leifr was up and heading for him before I could finish chewing, but their exchange proved to be short. Looking somewhat disappointed, Leifr reported that the Master, named Gedymin, wanted both of us present before he would share his tale.

I hurried to finish my meal and then we both sought Gedymin, who beckoned us into a side room. Up close, the witcher was even more intimidating that when I had seen him at court all those weeks ago. In fact, I think I would never had approached him all by myself, for he looked as likely to cut as down as to share a tale.

But contrary to my fears, share he did, speaking almost in a whisper, even though no one else but the three of us was around to hear. He told us that he had been hired by our father to hunt down a group of elves which the lord had claimed were responsible for crimes throughout his lands. He caught the elves sleeping and slew them quickly; no words were spoken, except for the last of the elves, who uttered "Why?" with his dying breath. Gedymin suspected, and I found it plausible, that these elves had nothing to do with the sacking of Blossoms, or other crimes. That is why he had smiled on delivering the heads; he knew that it would only further the bloodshed between man and elf. But, his contract was done; what came next was no business of his.

As for why elves had attacked Blossoms in the first place, he had no answers, save rumours that there had been some sort of deal between the villagers and elves, a deal that was broken by the villagers at some point, prompting retaliation.

I felt deeply conflicted as Gedymin told his tale. On one hand, the deeper conflict really was no concern of his. But on the other hand, he could have acted in order to save lives. Had he not acted hastily and killed those elves, then perhaps House Esche might still be alive and well. But then, the elves too had consistently overreacted; whatever their deal with Blossoms was, how could it justify a massacre of innocents?

Before I could gather the courage to ask a question of my own however, the castle horn sounded, signalling the start of the day's first lesson. We thanked the Master for his time and we hurried outside to meet the rest of our group.

Any further dwelling on the past was then indefinitely postponed as soon as our first lesson - fencing - started with, of course, a warm-up. The Master in charge of our exercises, Issa, was the small woman who had last night punished our fellow Frostwolf, and who had later accompanied us on the werewolf hunt. She quickly proved that she was very inventive when it came to joint-torturing exercises that forced us to bend in the most unnatural of positions.

The actual fencing was taught by another Master, Reinicke, a perennially smiling fellow with an outlandish wide-brimmed hat and obviously expensive leather boots that reached up to his knees. He seemed to be the very antithesis of the deadly serious Issa, making me wonder how did they come to both teach the same class.

Reinicke took us through four basic sword stances, then had us practice them with blunt steel swords. My arms betrayed me throughout the lesson, as I proved unable to hold the sword above my head for longer than a several moments. Swinging the sword already took the wind out of me, and once we were paired and directed to swing faster and faster at each other (while the other one parried) my arms and lungs simply began giving way. I found myself in need of unsanctioned breaks, which were cut short my Master Issa's stern orders. Needless to say, I was also constantly outmatched by the other adepts, even those who didn't look like they were particularly fit. Nevertheless, at the end of the two hours of training (which featured a, what should I call it, a warm-down?) I could finally wield a sword properly, something that all those years of so-called tutoring at House Esche failed to achieve.

Encouraged by my first taste of witcher training, I was quite eager for our next lesson, in archery. Again two masters waited for us, one of them being the witcher we had encountered on our very first day at the castle. Relaxed and friendly, he split us into two groups; the first one, to which I belonged, would learn a few combat tricks from him. The second group was to learn how to shoot a bow from the second Master.

Harlaw taught us how to avoid a charging monster and hit it in the back, as well as how to avoid an arrow aimed at us, something we barely managed to succeed in (I think it was more of a stumble than a deliberate dodge that took me out of the path of the arrow). After about an hour of this, we switched places with the second group. We had just finished learning the basic theory of firing a bow when Master Gedymin appeared and beckoned Leifr and I to one side. Apparently, a small band of wounded elves had taken refuge inside the castle. He offered to take us see them, so that we might perhaps shed some light on the tragedy that befell House Esche.

I admit I was unsure of how to proceed at that moment, even though it was expected, perhaps, for me to jump at such an opportunity. Fortunately, Leifr showed the decisiveness I was lacking, and quickly agreed. So we followed Master Gedymin towards the castle. When we reached the drawbridge, the Master stopped and presented us with a dagger each. He instructed us to hide them; a short jab to the throat, and we could have our revenge. I clumsily hid my dagger in my boot and hurried after the Master.

We found pure chaos in the courtyard, people shouting and roughing up two elven women, with accusations of murder flowing from the witchers, countered by accusations of betrayal from the elves. We watched as one of the elves was placed in a pillory, then was pelted with rotten tomatoes by the adepts gathered in the courtyard, all while the Grandmaster observed, silent as a statue.

The other elf was laying on the ground, injured. Fragments of conversations around us revealed that an adept had been stabbed by one of the elves, which had then been struck down by the Grandmaster. It was unclear, however, what had provoked the attack, as the elves loudly complained that they had been granted sanctuary which had now been violated.

I had little time to contemplate this, as the Grandmaster ordered the injured elf to be carried to another pillory. With a subtle nudge from Gedymin, Leifr and I hastened to grab the prisoner and haul her away. She was too tired to fight us, but made no effort to walk on her own either. By the time we had her locked in the pillory, I felt my arms were due to fall off any moment.

With that done, Leifr proceeded to interrogate her on her band's whereabouts and on involvement in the attack on House Esche. Feisty and uncooperative, she told us she knew nothing, and she refused to show any sympathy for the massacres we recounted. Instead, she asked us if we knew that Kaer Tiele used to be an elven castle once, long ago. Humans stole it, like they stole so many elven lives.

That thought gave me pause; my mind started wandering to the distant past, wondering whether the elven owners of this castle hadn't suffered a fate similar to that I had experienced. Where we caught in an endless cycle of revenge killings started by Gods knew who?

Gedymin interrupted us then, whispering to us that we should kill her now if we wanted, as our window of opportunity was closing. Leifr and I exchanged glances; I saw in his eyes conflict, but no real desire to kill. That cemented my decision, and I stepped aside from the prisoner and handed my knife to Master Gedymin, who took it back with no comment. Leifr did the same a few moments earlier. With a nod, Gedymin took us to the side and congratulated us on making our own decision, independent of his suggestion to kill the elf. I didn't feel particularly elated, but I did feel that I had done the right thing then. It would have availed me nothing to slay that elf, who didn't even have a part to play in the misfortunes that befell me.

Instructed to get back to our lessons, we thanked the Master and went on our way. Looking one last time towards the prisoner I had just spared, I saw Grandmaster Svar beside her. "Someone killed her," he proclaimed dispassionately. "No matter; she was going to hang anyway."

I admit to stopping there like a fool, staring at the scene. I felt cheated, my decision rendered pointless by an overeager blade. But more than that, I felt this was yet another bloody victory for vengeance and a step back in achieving some sort of peace between men and elves.

Leifr nudged me insistently, breaking my reverie which risked drawing unwanted attention to us. I followed my friend back to the archery lesson with my mind absent, the recent events still weighing heavily. But this concern could not last once confronted with the harsh reality of witcher training. It appeared that we had come just in time for the final part of the class, where our group would be split in two and participate in a game.

The rules of the game were simple: a dagger was placed on the ground, halfway between the two teams. Each team had an archer (with blunt arrows, of course) and four swordsmen (wielding wooden training swords). The goal was to get the dagger to the team's starting position. A hit from an enemy meant you were out of the game, but you could get back into the game by running to your starting position.

It was an intensely fun game, but it was also exhausting and punishing. Any hit hurt like hell, even though cushioned by my gambeson. The greatest bane, perhaps, came from the opposing archer, whose arrows here hellishly hard to avoid. But my couple of bruises were nothing compared to another adept, whose shoulder was dislocated by a hard impact with a player from the other team. While he took his injury in stride, he had to go back to the castle for medical assistance.

By the time the horn signaled the time for lunch, we were all battered and bruised and panting heavily, except for the archers, who had had the luxury of staying put, while forcing the others to come attack them. I staggered back to the castle, trying hard to put on a brave face and not lean on Leifr.

There seemed to be quite a commotion going on at the castle as we neared. Loud arguments could be heard flying back and forth between the Grandmaster and a spirited Master who I recognized as the woman to wake us up last night. Well, it was mostly her who was arguing about injustice, while Svar was calmly refuting her arguments with a simple statement that, within these walls, he was the law. He delivered the statement with such certainty, as if he was informing her that, yes, the castle walls **are** made of stone.

Next to them, an elf woman, the only surviving one by this point, I gathered, was being unceremoniously tied to a noose. Paying little heed to the continuing protests, Svar casually kicked the wooden log from under the prisoner's feet, causing the elf to drop and start choking horribly. The Grandmaster paid no heed to the death throes of the elf, but I for one was unable to tear my eyes from the scene. It all seemed unexpectedly horrible and... undeserved?

I stood there transfixed for some time until I was brought back to reality by the vehement protests of the woman in our group that I nicknamed the Dragon Lady. She seemed about to walk up to the Grandmaster and bring him to task over this execution, but Master Jodok instead suggested we should all head to a quiet spot so that we can discuss in peace. He took us through the nearby side gate of the castle to what amounted to a little garden, with a low wall around it, on which we could sit. The Master bade us reflect on the recent events and affirm our opinion on the matter, looking quite contemplative himself. The Dragon Lady was, of course, the first to speak up and to point out that the Grandmaster had been arbitrary in his decision to execute the elf. The elves had been granted sanctuary, only to be killed in cold blood one after the other, she claimed.

I thought on the matter. I had no way of knowing who was in the right here - whether the elf really killed an adept without provocation, or whether the adept had done something to provoke a confrontation. The latter seemed more likely, however; why would a wounded and tired elf look for quarrel so readily? Furthermore, since the adept had not even been killed, it seemed rather dramatic to order a death sentence for the companions of the alleged assailant. I turned towards Leifr; he seemed much less conflicted than me. The deaths appeared not to impress him greatly.

I was about to ask him about it when sudden silence stopped me in my tracks. I glanced around, and saw Grandmaster Svar casually walking into our little circle, smiling paternally at our Master.

"Jodok, what brings you to this... secluded place?" He asked, looking vaguely surprised to find us here.

"Ah, I was just having a little talk with my students."

"Oh; can I join in?"

"Sure," said Jodok, maintaining a stoically neutral expression. He then started talking to us about the importance of teamwork and collaboration, as if picking up from an interrupted speech, while the Grandmaster absent-mindedly observed.

The horn soon sounded, announcing lunch, at which point the Grandmaster headed back for the castle. We all got up and followed our Master along the same path back, but he walked just a bit slower than Svar, so that the unwanted guest was soon out of sight. He then turned to us and cautioned us not to take any action without first consulting with the entire group. "We must act together, or you face the risk of dying alone," were his parting words as we entered the courtyard and headed for lunch. I couldn't help but get a bad feeling of foreboding from all this talk.

Lunch was a sordid affair; the food had barely been served when the Grandmaster announced that the Steward Bertram had been found guilty of facilitating the werewolf's escape. There were murmurs of disbelief throughout the hall.

"I had my own reasons," Bertram quelled them with one firm sentence. He stood there resolute and firm, not flinching as the Grandmaster pronounced the sentence: thirty lashes. I cringed, for I knew too well what lashing looked like - skin would be torn off, and the victim's back would turn into a bleeding marsh. Enough lashes and a constitution frail enough, and you could even die from the blood loss, or from infection, should the wounds go untreated. I felt a lump form in my throat as I involuntarily imagined all of that. But Bertram quietly took off his shirt and turned his back to the Grandmaster.

"Wait!" A black-haired adept shot to her feet. "I volunteer to take some of Bertram's lashes." A couple of other voices immediately rose in agreement.

"Very well," the Grandmaster said. "Each volunteer shall receive a lash meant for Bertram. Line up and take your shirt off!"

"You don't have to do this. It's my crime, my punishment, and I can handle it!" Bertram protested, to no avail. Adepts hurriedly lined up next to him, fearlessly shedding their gambesons and shirts. I watched with amazement as over a dozen adepts volunteered, motionlessly waiting for their lash with straight backs, despite the biting chill that permeated the dining hall. There was an inkling of desire in me to get up and volunteer too, to help alleviate the grim punishment that awaited the stoic steward. But, I admit that I did not dare. Leifr didn't so much as budge, and so I fell rooted to my spot, alongside him. I did understand his unspoken reasoning, part of what was holding me back: we didn't know Bertram, nor the intention behind his actions. Why would he not be deserving of those lashes, especially in light of the casualty of last night?

Events, however, were proceeding apace in spite of my indecision. "With your permission, Grandmaster," Master Vester said, rising from the table, "I would like to be the one administering the lashes to my students."

Without a word, Svar handed over the whip. Any notion I entertained that Vester planned to protect his students immediately evaporated. Most adepts crumpled to their knees as Vester's whip scored an ugly red gash on their back. Even the toughest ones couldn't help yelling their pain. I wasn't sure what was going on in Vester's mind, but perhaps he was keen to make sure his adepts understand the consequences of their actions. Or, perhaps he wasn't as nice as I initially thought him to be, and he enjoyed inflicting the pain.

I couldn't touch one scrap of food, nor could I watch, as the whipping went on. Bertram alone barely made a sound, leading me to the horrifying possibility that he had been whipped before. Master Jodok was silently grim throughout the whole ordeal, his presence determining me to steel myself to the proceedings.

Eventually, the whipping stopped, and I could get started on my meal. Fortunately, my dark thoughts were chased away by the cheerful bragging of one of the Frostwolves, a big red-haired guy with a carefully braided beard and a fur hat that simply seemed to belong on his head. He looked to be the quintessential merchant, oozing with confidence and tales, and he did reveal to be the son of a spice merchant. His father had been saved by a witcher, who requested as reward the first thing the man found on returning home - the typical formulation for claiming a child for a future career as witcher under the wing of the claimant (these were known as children of destiny, and peasant folklore often presented them as being kidnapped against their will).

However, that witcher had never returned, and so the merchant's son decided to come to Kaer Tiele in search of his destiny. A bold decision, certainly; I don't think I would have abandoned a comfortable life for this, but I did admire his sense of purpose. The adept further regaled us with episodes from his long journey from his home town of Tretogor, not shying from admitting that he had become a thief in order to pay for his expenses. He even presented his pack of lockpicking tools as if it were just a set of cutlery.

He was so engrossed in his story that he didn't notice Leifr reaching into his pouch and retrieving said pack, not even as I stared in disbelief at what my friend was doing. Leifr kept glancing at me strangely, but I didn't understand what he was trying to get across until he took me outside and almost shouted in my face that I should stop staring and thus draw attention to him.

"But why would you even do that in the first place?" I asked, confused.

"The sure way to gain a thief's respect - steal from him," Leifr responded matter-of-factly. "But maybe next time you won't be staring like an idiot." Having said that, he walked off, leaving me to feel like such a fool.


End file.
